English

Conceit begotten by the eyes
Is quickly born, and quickly dies,
For while it seeks our hearts to have,
Meanwhile there reason makes his grave;
For many things the eyes approve,
Which yet the heart doth seldom love.

For as the seeds in springtime sown
Die in the ground ere they be grown,
Such is conceit, whose rooting fails,
As child that in the cradle quails,
Or else within the mother's womb
Hath his beginning, and his tomb.

Affection follows Fortune's wheels,
And soon is shaken from her heels;

Comrades, you may pass the rosy. With permission of the chair,
I shall leave you for a little, for I'd like to take the air.

Whether 'twas the sauce at dinner, or that glass of ginger-beer,
Or these strong cheroots, I know not, but I feel a little queer.

Let me go. Nay, Chuckster, blow me, 'pon my soul, this is too bad!
When you want me, ask the waiter; he knows where I'm to be had.

Whew! this is a great relief now! Let me but undo my stock;
Resting here beneath the porch, my nerves will steady like a rock.

1

Frankie and Albert were sweethearts, everybody knows,
Frankie spent a hundred dollars just to get her man some clothes;
He was her man, but he done her wrong.

2

Frankie went down to the corner, took along a can,
Says to the lovin' bartender, " Has you seen my lovin' man?
He is my man, but he's doin' me wrong. "

3

" Well, I ain't gonna tell you no story, ain't gonna tell you no lie,
Albert went by 'bout an hour ago, with a girl called Alice Fry;

1. Complete in thee, no work of mine May take, dear Lord, the place of thine;
2. Complete in thee, no more shall sin Thy grace has conquered, reign within;
Thy blood has pardon bought for me, And I am now complete in thee.
Thy voice will bid the tempter flee, And I shall stand complete in thee.

3. Complete in thee, each want supplied,
And no good thing to me denied,
Since thou my portion, Lord, wilt be,
I ask no more, complete in thee.

4. Dear Saviour, when before thy bar
All tribes and tongues assembled are,

Like a river glorious Is God's perfect peace
Over all victorious In its bright increase.
Perfect yet it floweth Fuller every day;
Perfect yet it groweth Deeper all the way.
Stayed upon Jehovah,
Hearts are fully blest,
Finding as He promised,
Perfect peace and rest.

Hidden in the hollow Of His blessed hand,
Never foe can follow, Never traitor stand.
Not a surge of worry, Not a shade of care,
Not a blast of hurry Touch the spirit there.

Every joy or sorrow Falleth from above,

The common speech is, spend and God will send.
But what sends he? a bottle and a bag,
A staff, a wallet and a woeful end,
For such as list in bravery so to brag.
Then if thou covet coin enough to spend,
Learn first to spare thy budget at the brink,
So shall the bottom be the faster bound:
But he that list with lavish hand to link
(In like expense) a penny with a pound,
May chance at last to sit aside and shrink
His harebrained head without Dame Dainty's door.
Hick, Hob and Dick, with clouts upon their knee,

The Common Cormorant or shag
Lays eggs inside a paper bag.
The reason you will see no doubt
It is to keep the lightning out.
But what these unobservant birds
Have never noticed is that herds
Of wandering bears may come with buns
And steal the bags to hold the crumbs.

Coming in splendor through the golden gate
Of all the days, swift passing, one by one,
O silent planet, thou hast gazed upon
How many harvestings dispassionate?
Across the many-furrowed fields of Fate,
Wrapt in the mantle of oblivion,
The old, gray, wrinkled Husbandman has gone;
The blare of trumpets, rattle of the drum,
Disturb him not at all—he sees,
Between the hedges of the centuries,
A thousand phantom armies go and come,
While reason whispers as each marches past,
“This is the last of wars—this is the last!”

He sleeps late, later than a man
should, according to her books or

the looks she gives him when at last
he emerges cheerful from their room.

Does he sleep late to escape her,
to live outside where what sings

does not also snarl, its chatter
welcome or unheard, not a racket

of anger he strains to interpret
as if he didn't witness her cacophony

of crime? Why can't she understand
his sleep apart from her, unburdened

by a father's slow retreat those
afternoons she found him snoring

“Come, try your skill, kind gentlemen,
A penny for three tries!”
Some threw and lost, some threw and won
A ten-a-penny prize.

She was a tawny gipsy girl,
A girl of twenty years,
I liked her for the lumps of gold
That jingled from her ears;

I liked the flaring yellow scarf
Bound loose about her throat,
I liked her showy purple gown
And flashy velvet coat.

A man came up, too loose of tongue,
And said no good to her;
She did not blush as Saxons do,
Or turn upon the cur;